


accession

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambassador Amilyn Holdo, Attraction, Dark Leia Organa, F/F, Imperial Jyn Erso, Multi, Original Trilogy Era, POV Second Person, Politics, Queen of Naboo Leia Organa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-06-17 21:39:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15470652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: You were sent here with the belief that you would fail.





	accession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



The distinctive scarlet robes that mark you as the Gatalentan ambassador threaten to strangle you as you move through a crowd of dignitaries, Imperial officers, and rich private citizens that are as eager to see you dead as the cruel fabric that hangs heavy on your shoulders. It’s the only explanation for the way their gazes slice through your chest and right into your heart. Each cut would make you bleed, but you stand strong and tall and you take courage from the way their eyes drift up to the crown of your equally red hair, so perfectly, severely matched that even they can see it as nothing more than a protest of your circumstances. Ambassador, you do not want to be.

There is nothing serene in you, it says, too, and that is true. Nobody with hair that falls like thick rivulets of blood across her shoulders could be considered serene. And yet you know the bland smile on your face is affixed to perfectly counter its effect, leave as many unsettled as possible. A wretched summer storm could tear through here and that smile would remain in place. They do not know yet to be wary of your smile, though it might put them off-balance. You are only the latest in a long line of Gatalentan ambassadors who have been chewed up and spit out by the Empire. And no place has left those individuals more chewed up and spat out than the Nabooian palace. They have no reason to fear you.

It is, of course, for that very reason that your first assignment as ambassador was to come here. A joke, you suspect, or a test. The Queen of Naboo herself, known to some as Lady Vader and others merely as Queen Amidala, was the one to invite you. Absolutely insisted that you come as soon as possible. And you are not established enough to deny her. _Congratulations are in order,_ the holotransmission had said upon your acceptance of your new position. _We do so cherish the ties that bind Gatalenta and Naboo to one another_.

You were only allowed to see the transmission once the invitation had already been accepted by your planet’s wisest leaders.

And you shivered to see the brightness of Leia Amidala’s smile, the clarity of it, the cleanness. It still fills your heart with dread, how pure it had seemed. You’ve dreamt of it so often that it’s turned into the sharp edge of a knife’s blade in your mind’s eye. And now you stand within the confines of her home, surrounded by enemies and dubious allies and there is no one to save you from your folly should you remember the way that dread has sometimes mutated into something even more terrifying.

Heat pools in your stomach at the remembrance. She is so devastatingly lovely.

Now is not the time to think of that devastating loveliness. And yet it is the only time, because in the very next moment you are handed a glass of the finest champagne Naboo produces and you are pushed toward the center of Theed’s greatest hall by hands you don’t recognize. Your shoes click unevenly against the marble and you barely save yourself from stumbling in surprise.

Your champagne threatens to slosh over the lip of the glass.

You consider draining the thing to keep from spilling it.

“The Queen wishes to speak with you, Ambassador,” a quiet, girlish voice says and when you turn to look, all you see is one set of the same midnight blue robes worn by equally inconspicuous girls in every corner of the room. They shade into gold along the hems. You hadn’t noticed that before. The hood nearly covers her eyes and a dark veil that tucks into the collar obscures everything else except the harsh outline of her mouth as she speaks. “I would not keep her waiting.”

You think to ask her what that means, but it becomes immediately obvious when you look toward the Queen.

Her eyes bore into you. Her gaze weighs heavy on your bones, wraps itself in your sinew.

She wears a gown of the deepest navy. Gold jewelry climbs the column of her neck, tangles in her hair, and shackles her about the waist. Chains of even more gold drip toward the floor, never quite reaching. Make-up paints her face a perfect shade of white and red stains the center of her lips and over the delicate curve of her chin, and down her neck. Twin lines streak her cheeks, equally red, like violent tear tracks.

A gold headdress slashes her forehead and obscures one eye on its journey toward the lobe of her opposite ear. It splits her face disconcertingly in two with its insouciant slant.

At her side looms a severe Imperial vision in full regalia, the white dress uniform of a high-ranking official or internal security adorning her form. It is impressive that she can loom considering she is not much taller than her counterpart. Her hair is pulled back and held in place with lacquer and discreet pins and her eyes survey the room, hungry for action or information or both. If you did not already know that she is the queen’s consort and Grand Admiral Jyn Erso, decorated war hero and propagandist’s dream, you might not be able to guess her motives.

Your fingers twitch toward your own hair, your robes. They want to smooth out every defect and imperfection in your presentation. As you step toward the pair, your nerves flutter with little more intensity than the constant beat of a butterfly’s wings, but it remains so insistent that you are certain the strain will topple you if you take even one more step.

You have been sent here under false pretenses.

You were sent here with the belief that you would fail.

You do not intend to fail. You may not like what you were sent here to do, but you will do it. You will protect Gatalenta in whatever way you must. And if that means becoming friendly with the enemy, you will do that, too.

You would weep for the Emperor himself if that was what it took to keep your home safe.

The Queen urges you forward with an imperious wave of her hand. You can see impatience through the mask of her flawless make-up. Strangely enough, that settles your stomach even knowing she should not have had to wait this long for you to reach her, not after her handmaiden has already urged you forward. Were she inclined, she could have you beheaded. Or sent before a firing squad. That she is still willing to suffer you despite this is a mark in your favor.

You think.

You hope.

Your steps quicken and that impatience mutates into insufferably smug pleasure.

She enjoys having made you scurry toward her; you will allow her to have this.

“Congratulations on your appointment, Ambassador Holdo,” she says, dipping her head in recognition. It is not proper protocol that she does this, but if she does not wish to care, then neither do you. It’s clear enough from the individuals around her that this isn’t the first time she’s breached decorum if the lack of reaction is any indication. It will not be the last.

Lady Vader gets what she wants. It is known and accepted.

At least she has not also forced you to be the first one to speak. “The honor is mine, Your Highness, and I shall strive to serve both Naboo and Gatalenta to the best of my ability.”

These words, you know, are nothing she’s never heard before. And yet you say them because they are expected of you. It is not so very hard to say. You feel as much for the peoples of Naboo as you do your own. You would serve them if you could.

There is a civil war to be fought here and there is rebellion brewing in the seas beneath Naboo’s placid, perfect surface and you have to ensure that, should the Gungans move against the above-water Nabooians, Gatalenta is not caught in the crossfire, a bystander left to wither on the vine because who trades in art and music and philosophy and sweet liqueurs while battle rages? And what else does Gatalenta have but these things?

Gatalenta cannot die even if her leadership does not care that it is a possibility.

You meditate briefly on the words of Mon Mothma, of Bail and Breha Organa, the slow, quiet whispers that you have traded back and forth with your compatriots back home. In order for Gatalenta to succeed, Naboo must succeed. At least for now.

It makes you sick, but this is the calculus you do to survive.

Perhaps one day, the Gatalentans will support the Gungans in their fight.

But now is not the time.

“That is very kind of you, Amilyn. May I call you Amilyn?” The way she speaks, you know she does not expect you to contradict her. And you do not. Your name sounds of smooth, rich honey in her mouth. Even if you would have liked to ask her to remain on strictly professional grounds with you, it is worth it to hear your name said in such a way. “Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Grand Admiral Erso.”

The admiral inclines her head, but she does not speak. Her eyes, though. You’re not unaware enough to believe that no interest sparks itself to life inside of her despite the overall coolness of her gaze.

Jyn Erso, as you recall, grew up on Imperial Center and she is less a stickler for the rules than she appears. Instead of keeping your hands to yourself—they are so very distant on Imperial Center, reserve touch and greetings only for their closest friends and confidants—you proffer your hand in the Nabooian tradition. A small test of your own. You hope the queen will not mind.

She takes it after only the slightest hesitation. Her palm is warm and dry and calloused. The confused uncertainty that flickers in her expression and dies almost as quickly is considerably more charming than it has any right to be.

“Looks like she likes you,” Leia replies, delighted. You’re unsure if it’s with you or with Jyn, but it hardly matters because the way she smiles is breathtaking and there’s one tiny, terrifying moment where you feel like you might do anything for that smile. She covers your already paired hands with her own. “Allow us to give you a tour of the palace. It is truly extraordinary and I do love sharing it with individuals of refined taste. All of Gatalenta is so very refined.”

You were raised to see goodness in beauty and there is so much beauty here, but there is none of the commensurate goodness to shine through. You have to believe that even as your resolve weakens just enough for a crack to begin to show.

All will be lost if you fail.

And you will not fail. You’ve already decided.

But it may not be as easy as you might have hoped to avoid folly and you can’t even convince yourself it might not be worth it to try to possess these two, to turn them to a higher purpose. Probably that is something you are incapable of accomplishing anyway. No point in trying.

You want to try anyway.

“I would love a tour,” you say, gracious, but not too gracious. Already your mind turns over the possibilities. The game begins.

You’d better play it well.


End file.
